


sin-frenzied and full of teeth

by smallredboy



Series: mouth is alive with juices like wine [1]
Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: (can't believe i'm tagging that), Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Werewolf, Bathing/Washing, Gen, Introspection, M/M, Medical, Minor Character Death, Pretentious, Twilight References, Werewolf Will Graham, it gets a little sappy at the end, off-screen violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-04
Updated: 2020-06-04
Packaged: 2021-03-03 18:38:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,050
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24530179
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/smallredboy/pseuds/smallredboy
Summary: In the records of his arrest, there is a note on a huge bite on Will Graham's flank. No one questions it, thinking it must have been one of his dogs. As things tend to be with Will, it isn't as simple as it seems; he has been turned into a werewolf, and the Baltimore State Hospital for the Criminally Insane must deal with the repercussions of this.
Relationships: Alana Bloom & Will Graham, Will Graham & Original Female Character(s), Will Graham/Hannibal Lecter
Series: mouth is alive with juices like wine [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1861798
Comments: 5
Kudos: 97





	sin-frenzied and full of teeth

**Author's Note:**

> for the writing discord server i'm in and its weekly prompt. this week's prompt was **lycanthropy** and i really couldn't help myself, and i accidentally wrote 4k of werewolf!will being a hot mess.
> 
> i might write more of him in the future. who knows.
> 
> enjoy!

Will knows that there is something wrong with him, even after being cured of the encephalitis Hannibal caused him. During his trip to Minnesota with Abigail, something went wrong, even wronger than it had with the ear and whatnot. He doesn't remember much, too deep into an episode to really remember anything (especially when Hannibal made such an effort as to make him forget), but he does remember the feeling of teeth sinking into his side.

No one comments on it when they go through him, when he's only in his boxers as they take every piece of evidence that tells them he killed Abigail. They assume it was one of his dogs, and he'd love to think it's one of his dogs — that'd be easy and that'd be simple — but he knows his dogs have learned not to bite while with him. He knows the marks are too sharp, too big to be his dogs'. He knows that if they investigated it they wouldn't match any of their teeth with the marks, none of the seven sets therein.

But he doesn't know what it is, either. He just knows it was not his dogs. And he's not dead, so it's not like it could have been a wolf or a coyote or something otherwise deadly. He's not sure what happened, but he knows there's something there, bubbling underneath his skin, like the fever he's started to grow used to not having. It's sizzling.

It's not until he blacks out while in his cell that anything happens outwardly. He's been moody, sure, but you can brush that away with ease — for fuck's sake, he's about to be on trial for five murders, none of which he did, while psychiatrists try to poke at his brain, try to leave their own brand on it. 

When he comes back to himself, he's being washed by a nurse.

He blinks. He feels heavy. When he looks down at himself, he sees far more body hair than he's used to. Enough to almost look like fur. Bile rises up in his throat, and he makes a deliberate effort to swallow it back down, as much as the acid clings to it.

"What —?" He breathes hard. "Where am I?"

He's not handcuffed, he notices that.

"Washroom," the nurse replies. "Things went awry last night. Dr. Chilton is investigating the issue."

"What — what happened?"

"We… are not sure," she says. 

That's when he looks down at the bath he's in, and notices for the first time the way the water mixes with blood. It's enough blood to darken it to something close to scarlet; a bit lighter than it.

"What did I do?" he breathes out, eyes wide as he straightens up.

"Mr. Graham," the nurse says, grabbing him and pushing him back onto the bathtub with a surprising strength. "You went… into a feral state. Like — what most people would describe as a werewolf, had they seen you."

"Oh," he says, quietly, his fingers dipping into the bloody water with uncertainty. They don't come out stained, but it does nothing to calm him down.

He lets out a hysterical little laugh. 

_This is unreal_ , he thinks, over and over again. He thought his world had shattered when he realized Hannibal had framed him, that Hannibal was a serial killer, that Hannibal had been stringing him along, winding him up until he watched him go. He had felt like he had dipped into an alternate reality where everything was darker and worse than it already was. But now he's apparently a fucking _werewolf_ and it feels easier to accept than that. It feels easier to think that the bite he had that no one questioned was by a werewolf than to accept the fact Hannibal has been planning this since they met.

Werewolves are real and apparently he is one. _Big fucking deal_. He's still trying to figure out how to show the world what Hannibal is.

"Did I —?" It's an useless question. With this much blood, he knows he did. " _Who_ did I kill?"

"The prisoner on the cell on the right to yours," she tells him.

He's not sure who that is. He remembers vaguely seeing him, an older man with a vacant stare and twitching fingers. He had never been told what he was there for, and he guesses now it's not a good time to ask, so he swallows down the urge to know just how bad was the man he killed. It doesn't matter anymore. The things he told himself to sleep better at night, back when Hobbs' ghost haunted him with noise and clarity — they don't matter anymore.

"I assume this is getting added to my charges," he says, lets out a quiet chuckle that comes out completely humorless.

"No," she replies. "Whatever you were then, it clearly wasn't you. And courts aren't quite equipped to deal with supernatural happenings, so as far as I'm aware, Dr. Chilton is trying to cover up your… _transformation_ as much as possible."

He huffs. "Of course he is," he replies. "Thank you for the bath, by the way. I… hurt all over."

"We imagined you would. You needed several tranquilizers to fall unconscious when you were in… _that_ form, and they had a few hours to examine that body you were in, before you turned back into what you are now."

"What did they find?"

"Canine features, mostly. Far bigger than any wolf, sharper teeth, gray fur. You were seen walking in both four legs and in two, seemingly at will."

"Hah," Will says quietly. "At will." He sucks in a breath. "Could I rinse off, now?"

"Yes," she says, handing him a towel and helping him get out of the bathtub. "They will… do a lot of tests, to figure out what exactly happened, what will happen."

"Of course," he says.

"I'm in your corner, Mr. Graham," she says. That's what finally makes him take her in, that sentence that denotes a certain kind of empathy he's not used to with the staff of Chilton's asylum. She's got a strange mix of features going, but that somehow still manage to make her easy on the eyes — a lazy eye, scars littered across her face; wavy auburn hair put in an up-do and Cupid's bow lips. "I know this won't be easy on you, much more so with what is happening in your trial. I'll try to be there, whenever possible."

"Thank you," he says, a bit shaken by it still, by that nice gesture. "What's your name?"

She shakes her head. There's a name tag on her clothes, but she's tucked it into a pocket as for it to not be seen. "You can call me Alex."

"Of course, Alex," he says, nodding.

He won't be able to ask for her, on the basis of not knowing her actual name, but she will come to him.

It feels like a nice truce, a steady rock to cling onto as the waves of his life hit again and again at the shore.

* * *

"What happened, Graham?" Chilton asks, watching him as he's strapped down to an exam table by a guard.

He gives him a small shrug. "My guess is as good as yours. A bite mark was registered on my records, no one ever seemed to care about it."

"You've got seven dogs, Graham," Chilton replies. "Of course no one seemed to care about it."

"It was… too big," he says. "I knew it wasn't my dogs. I vaguely remember the feeling of… teeth digging into my side. But I didn't want to dig my grave any further, so I didn't tell anybody about it."

"Of course not," he says. "So, supernatural being Will Graham. Sincerely hope this doesn't escape this place, I cannot _imagine_ the fanmail you would receive if it did."

He huffs. "Did you sell it to Freddie Lounds already?"

"No," he replies. "I do mean it when I say sincerely, Graham," he says. "So, let's see what's up with you when you're… normal. Or so I'm told."

"I'd assume this will stick to the normal werewolf tale, Frederick," he says. "So i don't think you're going to find anything unusual. I will be… me, for all it's worth. But once every full moon, I kill one of your prisoners."

"You'll be put on tranquilizers as soon as you transform," he snaps. "Don't get any ideas about committing more murders under me, this time with a very solid alibi."

"Such as becoming a wolfish creature."

"Yes," he says. "But we still do need to examine you, in case your _ailment_ does not follow the typical werewolf tale."

"Come forth, then."

Chilton does come forth. It's nothing rigorous, nothing weird, nothing invasive. At least nothing he's not used to by the feed his brain gives him or the invasive, weird, creepy things Hannibal did to him. Chilton takes samples of the hair-almost-fur all over his body, shaving it in a manner he wouldn't consider painless, but it's not as bad as it could be, he supposes.

"Are you done?" Will asks. "I'd love to talk to Alana, or something, about this."

"Next you're going to say you'd like to see Dr. Lecter," he drawls out.

He laughs. "That's not happening any time soon, Frederick," he tells him.

Although it would be fun, he's not denying that. He can see the look on Hannibal's face as he's notified of all this, of realizing the man he tried to turn into a monster (and show to the world as one) _is_ one, just not in the metaphorical sense he had aimed for.

* * *

"Will," Alana says, looking at him, looking through him as she settles outside of his cell. "I was notified of what happened."

"Was your first reaction that Chilton was pulling a prank on you?" he drawls out.

"Not really," she says. "He's not really a prank guy. And besides… it was too ridiculous for him to even tell me if it wasn't true. He knew I wouldn't believe it, so it made me believe it." She sighs. "Do you remember anything of when you were… like that?"

"No," he replies. "I don't. I blacked out one moment, and the next I was getting washed by some nurse, the water running red with blood."

She nods. She squirms on her seat. "What are you going to do about this?"

"There isn't much I can do, no?" he says. He lets out a little laugh. "All I have is the fact Chilton is going to run a million tests, and that he will tranquilize me as soon as I turn into… whatever the Hell that is." He shrugs. "It's not like I will keep killing other prisoners, Dr. Bloom."

"I assumed he would do something like that," she says. 

"What was the prisoner I killed here for?"

Alana goes stiff. "Does it matter to you?"

He considers his answer to that question. He wants to say that it used to, but that would alarm her, would make her perception of him even shakier than it already is.

"Yes," he replies.

"Murder and arson," she replies.

"Okay," he replies, shuffling on his seat a little. "I got bitten, before I got arrested. It must be on the record, but everyone must've brushed it off as one of my dogs…"

Alana nods. "You think that's where you got it?"

"It was… too big to be one of my dogs," he explains. "They don't even bite anymore. There's no… no explanation besides some werewolf biting me down and making me one of its own."

"Why wouldn't it kill you?"

He lets out a breathless little laugh. "I don't know," he says. "Maybe he saw I was _special_."

There's a little dialogue there neither of them dare voice aloud. On his side, Will adds _just like Hannibal did_ , while Alana does a good job at convincing herself that Hannibal has never done anything wrong in his life, has never dared hurt a fly, even. He can almost picture her thinking he takes spiders out the window when he finds one in his house, instead of not doubting to squash them. Living in his place rent free is quite _rude_ , anyway.

After about half a minute of silence, he picks back up. "Will you tell Hannibal?"

"You want nothing to do with Hannibal, Will," she says. "I do not think he'd appreciate being informed of your condition without being able to come talk to you about it."

"Of course," he says. "Perhaps I should let him."

Alana's eyes light up. "Really?"

"Yes," he says. "Chilton will be quite happy our trade-off of not discussing anything about me with Dr. Lecter has become a moot point. But I don't particularly mind that, as long as he gets to know what I am becoming, now."

"Are you… interested in his reaction?"

"Oh, yes," he replies. A small smile can't help but make its way onto his factions.

Hannibal is still his inner voice. But now, with what he's becoming, it gets darker, rougher around the edges. 

_Save yourself and kill them all_ , he says. He wishes he knew how to do that, how to shift into the beast he has been turned into against his will. Once metaphorically, now literally. 

He hopes he gets to meet the werewolf that did it. Perhaps when he's released they will be so kind as to visit him.

* * *

"Dr. Lecter," Will drawls out, looking up from his cell. "Fancy seeing you here."

Hannibal raises a brow at him, but doesn't say anything. "Why have you allowed me to visit you now, Will?"

He laughs. "Oh, Alana didn't tell you?"

"No," he says. "She didn't tell me anything. What made you change your opinion of me?"

"Oh, nothing has changed, Dr. Lecter," he replies, "I'm just eager to talk to you about a certain development. I simply couldn't resist, I'm sure you understand."

Hannibal raises a brow, but doesn't dignify that jab with a response. "What is it, Will?"

"Something bit me," he says. "Something bit me and now I'm _something_ , just like it is. We're calling me a werewolf because we don't know what else to call it, and I sure fit the tale."

Hannibal blinks. There is a second of confusion on his face, but it quickly turns back to neutrality. Ah, to blend in so well with people while wearing Hannibal's person suit — it must be great, Will muses, to have camouflaged oneself so well as for no one to notice the fangs and the blood. He doesn't have that kind of luxury, the coarse hair from his transformation still in the process of shedding.

"How did you find out?"

Will looks at him, and he feels starved for a second. He's better than Hannibal — his hunger is biological, something that came to him against his will, bitten down into his flank until it left a mark. Hannibal isn't as lucky, not armed with excuses besides one or two traumatic experiences in his youth that he can use to Freudian excuse himself out of cannibalism.

"Turned during the full moon," he says. "Told you I fit the tale." After a pause, he continues, "I… don't remember anything — I blacked out and when I woke up I was being bathed by a nurse, the water red with blood."

"You killed an inmate, then?"

"Yes," he nods.

Hannibal's eyes are alight with curiosity. As much as he tries to keep himself neutral, Will can see it, that hunger for making him just like him. He hates it, and he hates that every day he teeters close to it.

"How does that make you feel? To have killed once again?"

"Only the second time I've killed," he intercepts, with no desire whatsoever of being accused of Hannibal's murders while he is in the room.

Hannibal doesn't say anything about it. "Still a _once again_."

He clicks his tongue. "Suppose so," he agrees. "I asked Alana what he had done to get here. Murder and arson. It calmed me a little, to know I killed someone wicked."

"So you are still realizing that killing someone so bad sometimes feel good?"

"I didn't know he was bad when I ripped his throat out with my teeth, Dr. Lecter," he intercepts, "I killed him because he was the closest person I could find while shifted into a beast. I killed him because I craved blood in that form, not because I was aware of any crime he had committed."

"Of course," Hannibal says. "How did they stop you from killing more?"

"Tranquilizers do the trick, even in supernatural creatures," Will replies. "A _lot_ of tranquilizers were needed." He huffs. "I am sure that… Chilton will hold me in here to do a lot of tests. They are really curious about my condition, as you can imagine."

"It hasn't left this building yet," Hannibal comments.

"Something about me getting fan mail if it did," he says. "Lonely hearts who read _Twilight_ and were really into Jacob."

"I can understand that," Hannibal says. He clears his throat. "Not the fan mail."

"What, the being really into Jacob from _Twilight_?"

Hannibal makes a noise of discomfort, and Will can't help but laugh.

"I can't believe you read _Twilight_ , Dr. Lecter," he teases.

He tries to change the subject, because of course he does, lest he gets found out for being into more embarrassing stuff; things that don't involve high art or cannibalism. Trashy supernatural romance books fit that caliber perfectly.

"Have they found anything, in those tests?"

"Nothing weird when I'm in… my human form, as one would expect," Will says. "Just… normal everything. They want to do tests on me when I'm shifted, but I _really_ don't know how that's going to work out. Even with that many tranquilizers, a werewolf would probably wane off them at one point, don't you think?"

Hannibal gives him a small smile, one that raises goosebumps along his back.

"Let's hope not, Will," he says. "You know what would happen if they did."

Oh, he knows — he is almost curious as to find out what the consequences of that would be.

* * *

Alex comes to him on the night before his transformation is due. He hasn't seen the moon, stuck inside the building, but he can _feel_ it on his skin, the way his body rearranges to fit her in, to eat her whole, be filled to the brim with hunger, to become ravenous for blood.

They're doing tests on him again. Chilton is stubborn. They haven't found anything, of course they haven't found anything — but they're still desperately trying to get an answer, an explanation. An easy way to shrug off the fact there is a werewolf under their thumb.

He was supposed to get out the week before, with all the events that cemented his innocence and the frame-up, but Chilton made enough arrangements as to keep him there for at least one week more, as to watch him transform once again.

"Hey, Alex," he says as she hands him a cup of water, puts it to his lips. He takes a long sip, his throat welcoming it gladly.

"Hi," she says. "You should be out of here by the new moon, no?"

"I sure hope so," he says. "Couldn't stand being Chilton's experiment for much longer than this."

She laughs. "I'll try and keep in contact, alright? This whole thing is fascinating."

"What, did you read _Twilight_ and were Team Jacob too?"

She rolls her eyes. "No, I've consumed better werewolf media than that." She lets him finish the cup and puts it down before starting to use a washcloth on him. She's quite careful, looking at the bite that's turning into a scar. Her left eye wanders off on its own, looking at the door.

"Of course," he says. "You're good company, Alex. Thank you for, um, you know, not being like _that_. Other prison nurses are not as nice as you are."

"Oh, I am well aware," she says, leans in to squeeze his shoulder for a second. "I have to go now, alright? See you when you're out of here."

"You haven't even told me your real name," he points out.

"Very observant," she drawls as she flips her name tag back, so he can see it. _Laura Manning_ , it reads.

"Kind of what I do," he replies.

"Of course," she says.

She leaves through the door, and up comes Chilton, looking at him with curiosity in his eyes.

"Chatting up with nurses now, Graham? Got your first fan?"

"No," he snaps. "She was the one who bathed me when I first… turned. We're friends."

"Of course," he says, sounding like he doesn't believe it. "Well, we've got an extensive protocol for tomorrow night, as you can imagine."

He tunes him out, for the most part. He doesn't really care about what Chilton has to say.

* * *

The extensive protocol he tuned out for is, in fact, extensive.

He's left in his prison jumpsuit, but that is the only mercy he gets. He's chained to the wall of his prison cell— moved to a new one, of course, as reconstruction of prison bars can take a while — and he's wearing that damned muzzle. He knows none of these will do any good; he will break free from them as soon as he turns into the thing he is becoming. But there are guards next to his cell, watching him, waiting, ready to strike with the tranquilizers when needed.

He wills himself into calm. He wills himself into relaxing, into thinking about what he is going to do. About what is going to happen to him.

He doesn't black out during the transformation — he feels his bone break and reform, feels his teeth sharpen, his face become longer. He's filled with ravenous hunger, with fur. He doesn't know how he's still conscious this far in, how he hasn't gone right out, went unhinged and feral.

That's it until he does. The guards are ready to strike as his chains break off, one by one, and then he blacks out.

* * *

_You sensed his madness. Like a bloodhound._

In his fevered, unhinged state, Will guesses he is doing the same as he breaks free from the Baltimore State Hospital for the Criminally Insane. Of course he's not capable of much cognitive function right now, but among his instincts there is one, firm and solid, telling him where to go.

_Home._

But it is not home. Not what he would consider home outside of this state, at least.

People scream. People _see_ him, of course they do, it is hard to get there without being seen — and there is little they can do. No one has tranquilizers on deck, just in case a werewolf is out in the wild, going to one location without any other plans but to _get_ there.

He breaks the door down.

Hannibal gives him a smile from his place in his couch, legs crossed. He is not surprised, or if he is, he hides it very well. All he gives him is a nod of the head as he stands up.

"Was this what you thought would happen if the tranquilizers wore off, Will?" he asks to the beast in front of him.

The wolf does not answer, but he does not attack him either. He simply reaches for him and buries his face on Hannibal's neck, almost like he was going to bite down. But he does not, and he knows he will not.

"You're out," Hannibal soothes, a hand against his thick fur. "You're out, Will. You are here with me."

The wolf lets out a noise from deep in his throat, simply accepting the affection he has been starved of, the affection he is being given by a beast just like him. Perhaps one even worse than him.

(When Will comes to, he is being bathed. They don't talk. They look at each other in a silent understanding before Will drags himself off to bed.

There is home in Hannibal, he supposes. 

Perhaps _home_ is when one beast meets another. Perhaps _home_ is when one beast finishes the cycle of loneliness characteristic of being a monster.)


End file.
